


Sea to Shining Sea

by wahbble



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canada is an angsty teenager, Historical Hetalia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23888848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wahbble/pseuds/wahbble
Summary: When Canada finally meets America, he starts to realize being England’s colony might not be such a bad thing after all.
Relationships: America/Canada (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. In which America and Canada are late to the United Nations... again

**September 2019**

Canada’s grateful he lives close enough to drive to New York.

It takes eight or nine hours, but he doesn’t care. In fact, he likes the long trip.

That’s because every year, a week before the annual United Nations meeting, Alfred shows up at Matthew’s apartment with a bouquet of roses and a copy of whatever newest video game is the most popular. They spend two days in Matthew’s Toronto apartment and two days in Alfred’s New York penthouse, doing whatever they want, really. Boyfriend stuff. 

They’ve been doing this since 1953, every year, with the sole exception of 2001 for obvious reasons. Of course, video games weren’t really a thing back in 1953 (they had played Monopoly and card games instead), but the routine was generally the same and Matthew had come to look forward the approach of September every year.

They’re also late most of the time (and sometimes drunk and/or hungover), but Matthew doesn’t really care. He just wants to make the most of the little time he gets with Alfred, because they’re both busy nations and work very hard.

Canada is still sore from last night, so he groans when Alfie tries to pull him out of bed. “Mattie,” the American coaxes, tugging at Matthew’s legs. “We only have half an hour! We’ll be late.”

“Nooo,” Matthew complains halfheartedly, wrapping himself back up in the warm blankets. “It’s cold,” he slurs.

It’s fine if they’re late… It’s fine if they’re not even there at all, really… Matthew reaches out and pulls Alfred back into bed. “It’s fine… C’mon, let’s go back to sleep…”

“No, Mattie, we can’t,” Al protests, but he lets the northern nation pull him into the sheets. “We have to get to the meeting,” he says between yawns.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Matthew murmured, pressing himself into his boyfriend’s chest.

Alfred’s very warm…

* * *

“Sorry we’re late!” America yells, bursting through the door. Every conversation in the chamber stops immediately, all eyes now focused on the world’s resident superpower, who unabashedly exclaims “We overslept! Isn’t that hilarious?”

Canada suppresses a giggle and hides behind the taller nation, a little embarrassed being so close to the center of attention…

“The only hilarious thing about that is being so hilariously stupid,” England responds from his little corner of the room, where he’s comfortably seated in a sofa, reading the newspaper. He pushes his reading glasses up on his nose and coughs into his hands. “Really, America, you can’t think of a better excuse? We all know the real reason why you’re late.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean, eyebrows?!”

Matthew leaves America and England to their devices and instinctively seeks out France in the cluster of nations, who smiles and waves at him. Matthew waves back and hurries over to his side. “Hello, France!” he greets in French, “how are you?”

“I’m doing wonderful, thanks for asking,” the older nation replied, swinging an arm around Canada’s shoulders. “But I’ll be even better if you tell papa France what really kept you two, hmm?”

France wiggled his eyebrows, and Matthew burst into bright red. “Nothing!” he exclaims, “Really! He’s telling the truth, we just overslept!”

Canada tries to tell France for a whole five minutes, to no avail. The Country of Love even gives him a wink and a thumbs-up when the Secretary-General starts the conference, which makes Canada blush from all the way across the room.

“Not bad,” Alfred whispers, once they’re all settled down, “we’re only an hour late.”

“That’s really bad,” Matthew whispers back. “You should have woken me up sooner.”

“I tried, didn’t I?”

“Not hard enough.”

“Aw, but you’re the one who dragged me back to sleep.”

“If you weren’t so horny yesterday, we would’ve gotten to sleep earlier. It’s your fault, really—”

“—hey, that’s not fair. You wanted it as much as I did.”

Canada breaks out into a horrible blush and hides his face in his hands. “Oh, god, why’d I let you do that to me..?”

“You liked it.”

“Shut up! I hate you…”

* * *

Canada doesn’t have to present anything today, so he just makes himself comfortable at his desk. America _does_ have to present — he always speaks, even when he doesn’t really have anything important to speak _about_ (this occasion being such a case). Matthew can’t help but smile as his boyfriend takes the stage and starts cracking jokes, talking about aliens and robots and why not to worry, because he knows just what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse…

It’s moments like these, Matthew thinks, that make everything worth it — all the wars, the hard times, the decades spent not knowing what to do — everything was worth it to be able to sit here and be in love with the United States of America.


	2. In which Britain brings Canada to meet America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Canada met America, Britain had just taken him from France, and he still wasn’t very good at English. The war had been some of the worst years in the young colony’s life so far, and he blamed it all on the Brit. America was horrible and annoying… and England was, too.

**April 1764**

He hated to finally admit it, but Britain was genuinely reconsidering his decision to acquire Canada. He had just grown out of childhood and was coming into his hot-blooded teenage years, much to Britain’s chagrin (the older country had discovered that children make for loyal subjects, and adults at least pretend to be loyal, but those in their teenage years almost always attempted one form of rebellion or another). Oh, he was (most of the time) obedient when England was physically nearby, sure, but in virtually all other circumstances the French-speaking colony was just as uncooperative as his wanker frog of an ex-mentor. The disobedience was getting out of hand, but England tried to be understanding, because Matthew was a new addition to the British Empire and hadn’t yet grown accustomed to living under someone who wasn’t France.

After all, Britain knew what it felt like for one overlord to be replaced with another: Rome, Germania, Denmark, France…

Canada would understand eventually.

The Seven Years’ War had put England into crippling debt (stupid France). He can’t even spare the time to visit America as often anymore, so he figures this time he’ll bring Canada down south to introduce the two of them to each other. It’s a perfect chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Yes, that’s what he’ll do. They’ll keep each other company, which should satisfy America’s need for attention, and Britain can focus on pulling the Empire back from near-bankruptcy.

The morning in Quebec is nicer than ever, a refreshing break from the weeks at sea and months in dreary London.

Canada is lucky to have such a nice home, Britain thinks.

* * *

His name is Matthew. Matthew…

“Matthew,” Canada says aloud, trying his best not to fall back into the Mathieu he’s so used to. And… “Canada?”

He’s glad the spelling is the same, but they pronounce it wrong. It’s just… it’s just _wrong!_

English is hard, he decides. It’s a clunky language and nowhere near as elegant as French.

There was, after all, a reason why _French_ is the language of beauty, and English is not.

Canada’s solitary studies are interrupted when England shows up unexpectedly, ruining what had until now been a pretty nice day. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and the Brit just _has_ to ruin it all by coming to Canada’s house.

“What do you want?” is the first thing Canada says to the interrupting Brit. He knows this little English, at least, and the irritation in his voice is intentional.

“That’s no way to address me,” Britain says sternly, but he lets the small offense go. “I came to, well… you have the next week off. I’m taking you to meet America.”

Mathieu blinks and runs the word over in his head. America. _Amerique?_

He says the first thing that comes to mind: “I don’t want to.”

…

“Well, actually, yes, you do. And you will. You two will be working very closely together from now on, since you’re neighbors. And I know you’re still not very good at English; he can teach you, at least until your people start to assimilate...”

Canada almost scoffs. He’d rather die than let his southern neighbor tutor him. They’d just gotten out of a war, and now the Brit wants them to act all friendly towards each other? _“Va te faire foutre,”_ he mutters under his breath.

Britain stiffens, and Mathieu remembers too late that the Englishman’s fluent in French, too. _Merde…_

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

“…Fuck off. I said I didn’t want to meet him…”

He tries to close the door on England, but the taller nation moves a foot forward to block it. “Well, you’re coming, whether you want to or not. It isn’t a request anymore; it’s an order.”

“Fine,” he responds simply. It wouldn’t do Mathieu any good to anger England further.

He wants France back.

…

Oh, what had Canada done to deserve this?

* * *

“Nice weather today, isn’t it?” England asks on the second day of their trip, as they pass through the New York countryside. France didn’t lie about Englishmen being boring… god, what an awful attempt at making conversation. Canada isn’t interested.

“Uh-huh.”

…

“You’ll introduce yourself as ‘Matthew,’ won’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

…

“And you won’t be rude to America, will you?”

“Uh-huh.”

…

“Canada are you even listening to me?”

_“Non. Pas vraiment.”_

The Brit sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You know, Canada, you don’t have to be so adversarial. I know you’re upset that France—”

“—I’m not upset.”

“That’s… still… come on. It’s fine if you are.”

Mathieu groans in frustration. “ _Pouah, mon Dieu,_ why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like… _this!_ ” Canada yells, exasperated, throwing his hands into the air. “You and _Amerique_ invaded me! That was only a decade ago! Now you want to pretend like… like we’re…”

“Friends?” England finishes for him, crossing his arms. “You’re part of the British Empire now; that isn’t changing anytime soon. That being the case, don’t you think it’s natural we’re friendlier to one another?”

“ _Non,_ I don’t actually,” Mathieu snaps, glaring at the older nation. “Go die in a hole.”

“I—” the Brit starts, but he clears his throat and straightens his posture. “Well, then. That’s that, I suppose.”

Canada swears to God the Brit is infuriating. England and France grew up together, right? So how come one was so much better than the other?!

* * *

**Eleventh Century**

When Canada was little, back when he still wasn’t Matthew _or_ Mathieu, he used to go down to the beach every day. It wasn’t because he liked the ocean or anything, or the feel of sand underneath his bare feet. No, nothing like that. See, Canada was lonely, and wanted to meet another person. Someone who was like him: someone who didn’t get old and die, and leave him all alone… Across the ocean seemed like a reasonable place for him to start. He could never see the other side, though, so he stood on his tippy-toes…

Once he grew up and got taller, Canada imagined, he would be able to see who was on the other side of the ocean.

He waited and waited, for what seemed like forever. He tried stayed away from the places where his people lived, because they’d all die and leave him alone in the end anyway. Better to not get attached, he figured.

One day, he saw a pretty seashell in the sand. It had washed up on shore just as Canada was leaving, and it was too sparkly for him to ignore, so he rushed over and gently picked it off the ground. Before the soft waves could come to take it back. He cradled it in his hands like it would break any moment, but it didn’t…

That was the day Canada started a seashell collection. He liked to lie down at night and go through them, imagining what kinds of strange, wonderful places the shells had each come from.

Day after day, his trips to the beach became longer and longer, and took him further and further away from home, until—

_“—Heil. Hverr eru þú?”_

Canada looked up in amazement. He didn’t understand the stranger, but he sure was excited to see him! He was tall, like a tree, and his skin was pale, like the moon, and his hair was golden like the color of sunflowers…

The young nation had tried to introduce himself, but after a few botched attempts and one good one, it was clear that they were getting nowhere. The tall stranger made a weird face and had walked away — Canada followed him for as long as he could, but eventually the man met up with other, bigger, meaner men, and Canada suddenly got scared and ran home.

The next day, he went back to where he had met the strange people, but he arrived just in time to see a big wooden boat floating away. He sat down on the sand and watched the dot until it disappeared under the horizon.

Canada kept on going back to the abandoned village. Sometimes, he even dragged his entire box of seashells to the place, convinced that the strangers would come back if they saw that he’d brought them a gift. He stood as close to the water as possible and waved his hands around in the air— “Please come back! I miss you!”

He tried bringing them flowers, too, but that didn’t work either.

When the young nation asked one of his village’s elders what he should do about the strange pale men, she frowned and told him he must be imagining things, since nobody else in the village talked about anybody who was tall, like a tree, and pale, like the moon, with golden hair, like the color of sunflowers. Canada told her that it was a long time ago, more years that he could count on all his fingers and his toes, but she had just laughed and patted him on the head. “You’re imagining things.”

Little by little, Canada started to believe her. So he stopped going to the beach. He stopped bringing flowers to the abandoned village, and he dumped his box of seashells into the river.

There were no strangers on the other side of the water. There was only this place, and the people who lived here…

He was all alone, because there was no one else in the whole wide world who was like Canada.

* * *

**April 1764**

They arrive in Philadelphia on the afternoon of the third day.

When Canada meets America, he’s surprised at first. America isn’t as… England-y as Mathieu has come to expect. Actually, they’re nothing alike. America doesn’t really have the older nation’s bushy eyebrows, for one. And, while Britain is visibly older, America is taller and more muscular. England looks gloomy and America looks bright and energetic.

England is strict, and America is carefree.

England is polite, and America says what he thinks.

England is quiet and observing, and America is passionate and confident.

At first Canada thinks America might not be as bad as he’s made him out to be, but almost right after realizing these things about America, Mathieu realizes something else: all these seemingly good things are actually bad things in disguise. He’s not carefree, he’s reckless. He doesn’t say what he thinks, he’s just plain rude. And he isn’t passionate and confident, more like loud and conceited. 

All of it makes for the most obnoxious person Canada has ever met in his life, and England is completely fine with it. It’s a wonder these two were able to hold their own against Mr. France, let alone _beat him in a war…_

“Alfred, this is Matthew,” the Brit introduces, when Mathieu finally decides to get out of the carriage. “Matthew, this is Alfred.”

America stands and stares at Canada for a few moments, before running over to stretch a hand out in greeting. “Nice to meetcha, Matthew!”

Canada refuses to handshake. Why in God’s name are these people acting so friendly?! “Don’t call me that,” he snaps, glaring at the southern colony. “It’s Canada to you. Ca-na-da.”

Silence.

Then: “Dude, what’s up with your accent? It’s all weird and Frenchified, or something — ow!”

Britain jabs the American in his stomach as he finishes the sentence, and Mathieu breaks out into a terrible blush. He… that’s so mean!

“That’s very rude, America!” Britain reprimands. “I didn’t raise an inconsiderate little wanker, did I? Apologize at once.”

The American obviously doesn’t want to. But he doesn’t have much of a choice, seeing how England’s got his hands tightened around America’s shoulders in a say-it-or-you’re-done-for sort of way. “I’m sorry, man,” he mutters, but he doesn’t even make eye contact with Mathieu. _What the hell is wrong with him?_

“It’s true that Canada’s understanding of the English language is very limited at the moment,” Britain continues, “but it’s hardly his fault; I mean, he was raised speaking French. Imagine if you were suddenly taken by another Empire, like Spain; you wouldn’t have an easy time learning Spanish, would you?”

“I already know Spanish,” America snickers, “you gave me Florida, remember?”

“That’s besides the point,” the Brit sighs, giving Canada a look that seems genuinely apologetic. “Actually, I brought him here so that you could teach him a little English, at least until I pay off the debt and can start sending more people to settle the province…”

“Wait, he wants _me_ to teach him English?” America asks loudly, eyes sparkling with something in between excitement and pride. And something else, too… the Yank was probably overjoyed to have another chance to torment Canada.

“Well, it was actually my idea, but I’m sure Canada will be deligh—”

“No, absolutely not,” Canada interrupts, cutting Britain off in the middle of his sentence. “ _D-désolé,_ sir, I just can’t work with him…”

 _Please,_ Mathieu mouths, cheeks hot. The American will make fun of him. He’s sure of it.

Britain looks at Canada. Then he looks at America. Then, Canada again.

“Fine,” he sighs, bringing a hand up to rub his temples. “I guess it wasn’t a very realistic solution, anyway…”

The Brit gives Mathieu an absentminded pat on the head. “Come on America, let’s get inside. Parliament’s passed new laws concerning you, and I thought I’d come over and tell you personally…”

Britain’s voice drifts into nothingness as Canada begins to tune the non-important stuff out, but the lingering touch at the top of his head is still there. He hates it, but the action makes Mathieu feel… _good._ Important, cared about, something like that.

 _No, no, no._ But he doesn’t _want_ to like England...


End file.
